Tag: Cheating Husband

Chapter 7: Un-accepting reality

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Mr Ex finally showed his face the next evening.

He had prearranged via email to “drop by and collect clothes”.

DROP BY AND COLLECT CLOTHES FULLSTOP.

That is it. NO TALKING and certainly NOT returning home to stay. Mr Ex didn’t need neon flashing lights to make that loud and clear to me.

When he arrived, he looked absolutely wrecked. Dark grey circles under his eyes. He did not look good.

Mr Ex always gave the best hugs. For seven years of my life, his all-embracing hugs were a sure-fire way to melt my troubles away. No warmth this time though. No hugs. No niceties.

The best way to describe Mr Ex at this moment? Bewitched. Zombie. Total stranger.

It was scary.

And surreal.

Scary and surreal to see my best friend genuinely presenting like a creepy mutant robot in front of my eyes.

I tried to reach out to him, gently. I sat on the sofa in an effort to encourage him to sit too.

But he remained standing the whole time.

And he remained on the other side of the kitchen bench, maintaining a physical barrier between us. It was clear to me that Mr Ex was guarded. And it felt like I was stuck in a sci-fi movie, witnessing a Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde-style alter-ego of my husband.

I asked Mr Ex about his [fictional, fake, pile-of-dog-poo] sailing trip. Remember, as far as he was aware, I thought he was sailing that weekend. He didn’t know my clever mum had rung the boat club and discovered there were no races that weekend.

But Mr Ex, in typical lawyer fashion, didn’t confirm or deny. He had years of legal studies to his name. Damn lawyers! He just kind of looked vague. And creepy.

I maintained my position that I would stand by him no matter what. I reaffirmed my half-dead-kangaroo-style steadfast love for him. But, again, he didn’t reply. I noticed that he was actively avoiding eye contact too. He was twitchy. Still vague. Possibly sleep-deprived??

Then I asked him some questions. The same questions I’d unsuccessfully asked before. Once and for all, I wanted to know who “she” is and whether this was an actual “thing”.

Maybe it was just a crush? Maybe it was just one kiss? Maybe it’s over?

To my amazement, he answered straight away. He told me, “I work with her.”

FINALLY! AN ANSWER!! About fucking time!!

“…And she is married too,” he added.

Far out! That was a surprise.

But he said he couldn’t – or rather wouldn’t – reveal her identity.

WHAT THE FRITZ?!  He’s protecting her?!

I wanted to know how long this had been going on for.

“Two months, maybe a bit more,” he revealed.

But that was it.

He wouldn’t add anything else.

He wouldn’t indicate if they were still together or how far their r…r…r…r…r…relationship had gone. Both vital bits of information for me to understand the situation at hand. But no; no reply.

Mr Ex then went upstairs. I tagged along behind. He collected a few bits of clothing from our wardrobe as I sat on the bed, feeling lost. Leaving his backpack on the bed, he stepped out of our bedroom for a brief moment – while I stayed on the bed, trying to think of what I could do to stop him from leaving again. Do I create a scene? I contemplated falling on the floor in theatrical commotion. I contemplated hiding his car keys or throwing myself down the stairs into the glass window at the bottom. Tears flowed from my eyes. But I didn’t have the energy or capacity for theatrics or games.

As Mr Ex put his backpack of clothes on his back and began to walk downstairs again, he told me, “Well, Essie, that’s about it. I don’t think there’s anything else I need to take.” Then he remembered, “Oh, you don’t drink red wine. It’s not your thing, hey. So I’ll come back another time to get that.”  Mr Ex was talking about a wine rack of his mum’s homemade red wine.

What!! He wants wine?! To drink it all with HER, I bet!!

I was not OK with that, although it didn’t really call for a reply.

He then left, still in zombie-mode, carrying that backpack stuffed with clothes. He wouldn’t say where he was staying or when he’d be back again.

I sat on the stairs for a while after he left. Just watched the door. Probably for a good half hour, if not longer.

And then it hit me!!!!!!!! He had walked out of the bedroom for thirty seconds before walking back in again. What did he DO in that time?! So, I retraced his steps to see what he could have been doing.

Oh, shit!

I opened the linen cupboard just outside our bedroom door, reached up to the top ledge and pulled down the biscuit box hidden behind my hairdryer.

HE TOOK HIS PASSPORT!!!!!!!!!!!

I was shocked.

Of ALL the things to take!!!

‘Zombie mode’, yet obviously thinking clearly enough to collect his passport.

So, I grabbed a bottle of red from the wine collection that I knew he wanted. A glass for me, a glass for the drain, a glass for me, a glass for the drain… And, well, that’s how I became a red wine enthusiast!

Wine glass in hand, I got thinking…

Is he depressed? Is he in danger? Is he on something?

Is he self harming or in some kind of trouble?

Is he planning on skipping the country?

Has he suffered a mental breakdown?

Or, worse still, is he completely sane?!

I couldn’t comprehend reality.

And I was actually rather scared for him. Of him, even.

“You need to know what you’re dealing with,” my family told me a little later, as I recounted Mr Ex’s behaviour. “You need to come to terms with reality and gain some control.”

And this is the point in my story where I run the risk of over-sharing and sounding like a total fruit loop myself!

At the time, Dad played tennis socially with a private investigator.

I needed answers.

I needed help to face reality.

I needed facts. Facts with no emotion.

And Penny, a lovely private investigator and former police officer who played tennis with Dad, could help me with that.

Images of trench coats, briefcases and magnifying glasses were soon put to rest. Penny broke every stereotype of a private investigator. Just think Agent 99 from Get Smart!

Oh, the mental turmoil! Should I do this?!

On one hand, it would give me the cold, hard reality. I would know once and for all what I was dealing with. And I could get answers in a situation where I was completely in the dark. I mean, I didn’t really know what I was dealing with. His behaviour was alarming. And if he is actually in some kind of trouble or mentally unstable and needing help, I could then do something about it.

But on the other hand… this is my HUSBAND we’re talking about!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I thought and thought and thought.

THIS IS NUTS!

This is the stage where the Titanic is vertical in the water. Half above, half under.

How long can it stay like this?

Is it about to go under? Or can it stay half submerged indefinitely?

A line from one of my favourite movies The Truman Show starring Jim Carey, says, “We accept the reality with which we are presented.”

That hits the nail on the head for me.

We are all guilty of it. We accept reality.

When life is ‘normal’, we go through the motions of getting up each morning, going to work, meeting deadlines, coming home, going to the shops, going on holidays, going to church, having children… it all just happens. We get swept up in a misconception that we are in control of our lives. We never have to justify why we do what we do. We never have to question our beliefs because everything just works. It is our life and we are living it. End of story.

So what happens when we are completely incapable of accepting the reality with which we are presented?! What happens when we just flat-out refuse to accept reality? Or when we don’t even know what reality is?!

When facing life-changing, earth-shattering, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking, mind-blowing events such as this, everyday routines just disappear. Daily life goes into disarray. Usual day-to-day rituals are suddenly brought into question. We refuse to merely accept reality.

Pain bursts us open.

Pain makes us delve deeper into what we normally take for granted.

We inquire, we challenge, we doubt, we search for answers.

Heartbreak changes people.

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Chapter 5: Love and The Half-dead Kangaroo

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Sunday morning. I had survived two nights following my husband’s revelation of an affair and his decision to walk out.

I started googling inspirational quotes. There’s a lot of wishy-washy rubbish out there, but this one spoke to me…

“We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”
Viktor Frankl (1905-1997)

And that quote has continued to speak to me ever since. It is a perfect reminder that we always, always, always, always, always, ALWAYS have the ability to choose. No, we cannot choose our circumstances; but yes, we CAN choose how we respond. I was on my way to understanding this, albeit with ‘L’ plates on.

I received an email from Mr Ex that afternoon.

I stared at the new email in my inbox before clicking to open it. I braced myself for a surplus of reasons why I am a bad wife. Maybe he would be slinging mud or off-loading anger.

Instead, I got a bewilderingly kind email apologising!

It started with, “Hi Essie, So this is a really weird and screwed up situation. I know it doesn’t mean anything at this stage – but you should know that I regret causing you this heartache and pain, and I am ashamed and sorry.”

That threw me. Oh, the relief! The tin man has a heart!

Mr Ex continued, “I’m not a Christian – no real surprise right. I don’t know what to do with that reality, whether I want to pursue it further, or even whether I believe any of it anymore. It doesn’t feel real and hasn’t for a long time. I’m so sorry about everything. Please protect yourself and make sure you blame me and people understand this is my screw up. You have every right to be angry.”

This didn’t make me angry though. It actually further empowered me to stand by him even more. My husband just sounded lost, confused and sad.

I sent him a long email beautifully articulating my love for him and logically explaining why he should come back to me.

I also sent him articles that I found on the internet about divorce:

“Divorce: Trading One Set Of Problems For Another“

“After the Locusts: Why Divorce Is Never The Answer”

“The Unthinkable Consequences of Divorce And Why Divorce Is Never An Option”

I also sent him testimonies of couples who had been in this same crisis, ended up divorcing, but, with hindsight 30 years on, wish they’d stayed married and worked it out.

All the statistics say that couples who form a relationship based on one, or both of them, cheating on their spouse have a 25% chance of their relationship lasting. I would’ve liked this statistic to be lower, so I actually don’t think I specified the exact percentage. Or maybe I lowered it a little.

He wrote back, “Essie, I can’t control how you feel – and I know this has come as a surprise, and you are struggling to think of reasons or see whats happened. But I wish you would stop sending this stuff through. Let go.”

Did I let go? No.

Maybe I should have.

But I was sitting around at home with my thoughts. No husband. Marriage status: critical. I had nothing to lose. And I missed him. I really, really, really missed him.

So, I wrote, “You’re my husband. I choose to fight for our marriage. We are one. Trying to forget someone you love is like trying to remember someone you’ve never seen before. You’ve been EVERYTHING to me for ALL of my adult life!!!!!!!!” (granted, I was only 24!)

And – you’re going to think I’m nuts – I sent him more articles:

“10 ways to a stronger marriage…”

“19 steps to reviving your marriage after an affair…”

“12 reasons why your marriage is worth fighting for…”

Then, things got rather final.

“Essie, you obviously think I’m making the wrong decision, I don’t agree. Neither of us is going to convince the other. I have strong feelings for someone else. I might have regrets to my dying day but I am sticking with my choice.”

I day-dreamed a lot. I day-dreamed of him knocking on the front door, me opening the door, and us lovingly falling into each others arms with him apologising profusely.

I recalled scenes from Reese Witherspoon’s movie Sweet Home Alabama: “You were the first boy I kissed and I want you to be the last,” she declares as she embraces her ex-husband.

Less than two weeks before this nightmare unfolded, Mr Ex and I had attended a friend’s church wedding. The minister’s sermon was heavily based on the Bible verse, “Love never fails” (1 Corinthians 13:8).

Oh, shit! Day dreaming one day, I remember being hit by a metaphorical bus. Mr Ex was fidgeting the WHOLE time through that sermon. He was trying to play games on his iPad ALL through the ceremony. And when I put my arm around him, he didn’t respond or ANYTHING! He didn’t even want to hold my hand!!!

Oh, double shit!! After the ceremony, he said he was feeling sick, he dropped me back home, and then he went to the walk-in doctor’s surgery. But he said the doctor had an unusually long waiting time, so he’d be “about three hours”. THREE HOURS IN A DOCTOR’S WAITING ROOM?!?!??!

…I continued to realise the full extent of the affair. There were calculated opportunities for an affair. I just didn’t think of it as suspicious because, well, I trusted him.

GAH! I had even spoken to Mr Ex on the phone as he was apparently in the doctor’s waiting room. I rang him with the loving intention of ‘keeping him company’ while he waited. But he couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.

There was no doctor’s visit. No waiting room queue.

This was the sailing trip all over again.

TTTTRRRIIIIIPPPPPPPPLLLLLEEEEE SSSSHHHHIIIITTTTT!!!!

But, you guessed it! I messaged Mr Ex yet again! Saying what? Reiterating that he is my beloved husband and that I had vowed to love and cherish him in sickness and in health til death parts us. And that I intended to stick by that.

Was I the only one taking that whole ring exchange and vows thing seriously?!

I fully intended to fight for him and fight for our marriage.

Gee, love is strong. And forgiving. And persevering. And full of hope. And overlooks tonnes of crap. And really quite amazing.

Hmm… deja vu! Where have I heard something along those lines before? 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 in the Bible was ironically read at our wedding; a pleasant, non-threatening, and [what I thought was a] fairly generic summary of love, but suddenly its validity and accuracy was glaringly obvious to me:

IMG_1963.PNGMy love for Mr Ex wasn’t diminishing any time soon, even though he was blatantly rejecting me. He was saying he didn’t want me. He was refusing to come home. And he was cheating on me!

Why didn’t I just ditch him? Turn my back on him? Say “good riddance to this scumbag”?!

Love.

Like a half-dead kangaroo lying on the side of the road after being hit by a truck, the kind thing to do at that point would’ve been for someone to shoot me. Just put the poor bugger out of her misery.

No such luck though.

When the person you love tells you that they don’t love you anymore and they don’t want to fight for your relationship, that should just kill you instantly. When the person you love has been actively, creatively and ruthlessly lying to you, you should just keel over and die. No one should have to live through the pain of rejection by the person they love. No one should have to live through rejection and betrayal by their most trusted, lifelong companion.

Or at the very least, there should be an emergency switch in our brains which allows us to immediately abort all feelings of love and compassion towards that person in situations like this. If someone rejects you, your brain should instantly self-destruct all memories of that person, all hope in that person, and all love for that person. Wouldn’t that just save a whole lot of heartache. And certainly that would save us from ending up like roadkill. But, alas, that is not how love works.

Love is the strongest of all emotions.

It is even stronger than grief.

Stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

Our capacity to love and be loved transcends all pain and logic. That is truly astounding.

And the half-dead kangaroo which should be put out of its misery (aka me) epitomises the strength and power of love. Love hangs on. The fact that my love for Mr Ex could turn me into roadkill, yet I was still hanging onto that love for him, shows our innate aptitude to love and why true love – when returned – really is so special. A mighty force.

The irony is not lost on me.

I am learning more about love now that I am on my own, than through all those seven years of being in love with Mr Ex.

I am learning more about love through Mr Ex’s rejection, than I ever did through Mr Ex’s love.

And something else started to ‘click’ in my head. Another light bulb moment.

“For God so loved the world...” -John 3:16.

Chapter 4: Please help me, God.

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I was living from hour to hour. Every hour that passed, Mum congratulated me for getting through. Then we would set the goal of surviving the next hour. Then congratulate ourselves all over again.

Breathing was the only thing I could achieve for that whole day. Mum and Aly reassured me that that was OK.

Meltdowns added some variety to the afternoon.

MY HUSBAND HAS BEEN HAVING AN AFFAIR.

MY HUSBAND HAS BEEN ACTIVELY LYING TO ME.

MY HUSBAND DOESN’T WANT TO COME HOME.

MY HUSBAND WON’T ANSWER ANY OF MY QUESTIONS.

WHERE ON EARTH IS MY HUSBAND????????????????????

The pastor from church, and his wife, came over to see me. They hugged me. They talked with me. They prayed with me. They comforted me. It gave me a sense of peace amidst the madness. Their love and warmth was abounding.

And they told me that no matter what, God was in control.

HA! Now that’s a little hard to believe!!, I thought. And if he IS in control – and he let this happen to me – then he’s not such a loving god!!!

I come from a Christian family. They’re no particular denomination and my ancestors have pretty astounding histories involving their relationships with Jesus Christ. My great-grandfather was a minister in communist-ruled Belarus where he held Bible studies and church services underground. He ended up being murdered for his Christian beliefs, which he chose to stand by.

I attended an elite all-girls school. Originally founded by the Presbyterian Church, it is now only vaguely Christian. I think the majority of students would not identify with a faith. So I didn’t really have “Christian friends” at school growing up. I had an eclectic mix of peers.

I did, however, attend church with my family. At church, I was taught that “Christian” and “Science” were opposing. You had to choose; Team Christian or Team Science. So as a high-shooler, I weighed up the pros and cons of creation and evolution and decided on creation. I was never good at science at school, so that was the primary reason for my choice. The creation versus evolution debate is a never-ending one with people on both sides devoting their entire lives to proving their stance (Hello, Sheldon Cooper!). I mean, you just have to google both terms and you’ll find a plethora of websites proving and disproving these convincingly. But what I have since come to realise is that the two need not be on opposing sides. It is not – and should never have been – a case of one or the other. But it was in my small world.

I guess I’ve always just had a gut instinct that there must be more.

When I was 16, my parents and I started going to the church where I met Mr Ex. My parents never put any pressure on me to take on any kind of ‘religion’ for myself. But at 16-ish, I did take it on. It was at that church where I *found God* (or whatever you want to call it). You can read more about that later.

At 17, I started dating Mr Ex. Mr Ex was an active member of that church and he would regularly lead the singing and take part in prayer meetings. Our relationship blossomed. We were both quite sure that God had brought us together and was blessing our relationship. We met other young Christian couples and were in a world of pure and utter joy going from strength to strength. Life was blissful! We gave each other Irish Claddagh rings representing love, friendship and loyalty. During our Uni years, we chose to stay away from pub crawls and nightclubs and we chose to *wait*. And then after about two years, we got engaged and then married; all trying to do the right thing according to the Bible and ‘what God would want’. (FYI, I’m literally cringing as I type all that! LOL).

We were the epitome of the perfect couple! We were the stunningly beautiful UNSINKABLE Titanic, DAMMIT! So if we’ve done everything ‘right’, then why the hell is this nightmare unfolding?? Where did this fucking ice berg come from? Shitty-shitty-bang-bang, I’m turning into a swearing truckie now too!

That night, I walked upstairs to our bedroom. And everything came tumbling down.

I fell to my knees in a rather spectacular fashion.

Tears, screams, and trembling uncontrollably.

Crying to the point of dry-reaching.

In a state of total brokenness.

Complete darkness.

Hopeless.

And I started to pray.

Please help me, God. I can’t deal with this on my own. I’m scared shitless right now.

There were no bolts of lightning. No flashes of light nor clouds of smoke. But my awkward and feeble prayer was helping somehow.

For the first time in my life, I was entirely comfortable praying. I wasn’t thinking about what words to use or how to sound intelligent. I wasn’t crafting well-thought-out sentences or reciting commonly used prayer phrases. I was talking to God from my heart, not my head. I had no energy for the superficial. This was all real. Messy. Disjointed. Rambling. Questioning. Anger. Pain. But 100% authentic.

We pray our most authentic prayers when we are completely broken.

And that night, I actually got some sleep.

Chapter 3: This was calculated.

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The next morning, I sat on the sofa in my dressing gown. Empty. Lifeless. Comatose.

I watched the clock in my lounge room tick. For hours and hours. I just sat on the sofa and watched those clock hands move. How did this happen?! My brain worked in overdrive dissecting every aspect of our marriage. I mentally trawled through the past few years trying to detect the slightest hint of trouble.

But I actually struggled to find anything that could be remotely responsible for THIS to be unfolding!!

Our marriage was the Titanic. A stunningly beautiful vision. Impressive. Inspiring. UNSINKABLE.

And we’d just had our ice berg moment.

A massive tear in the hull of our marriage.

This was me assessing the damage. Is this fixable? Can we patch it up and keep going? Is water pouring in? Are we going under?

I looked through photos from our recent road trip in November 2012. That was only three months prior to this. Happy times. And I have the happy snaps to prove it. We took Rommy with us. It was my very first camping trip. I thought it went beautifully.

We’d also just bought a second house in November 2012 which we planned would be our family home one day. We had already arranged to rent it out in the meantime. Talk about entrepreneurial, successful DINKs!

My assessment? Life was sweet!

But, there was one small ‘negative’ that I could pinpoint. And it was all I could find to offer some kind of explanation for this nightmare….

We were trying to have a baby. And it wasn’t happening for us. Coming up to a year and a half.

And we were one week off starting IVF.

On the morning of that ‘Disaster Friday’, I got my period. And I’d told Mr Ex that. It was the ‘green light’ – so to speak – that I, once again, was not pregnant and we would therefore go full-steam ahead for IVF the following week. Injections and more tablets were all lined up. This is our time!

We had an amazing fertility doctor and her team were super supportive. Good to chat to. Easy going. Light-hearted. And that’s exactly what you want in a fertility team, considering they’re required to insert probes to suss out the thickness of your uterus lining, ask awkward questions about your sex life and examine your sperm under a microscope.

It wasn’t doom and gloom though.

We had been told that we had unusually excellent chances with IVF due to our young age and the tip-top condition of my insides. We would be good for their statistics.

So, that all seemed really positive. To me, at least.

I was actually excited!!

Mr Ex and I often chatted about baby names. I liked the name Amelia. He wanted Neave. He said he liked Irish names (remember that; it’ll be a useful piece of the puzzle down the track!). Mr Ex was a complete natural with children. Like, even better than me and I work with kids! That was one of the many things that drew me to Mr Ex, actually. I knew he’d be a brilliant dad.

So anyway, the only reasoning that I could find for ‘problems’ in our marriage was the fertility journey. Maybe it has affected Mr Ex harder than me? I wondered.

I then looked through my 2012 diary trying to determine dates and times when Mr Ex may have had an opportunity to be having an affair (when was he ‘working late’ or perhaps when he may have been acting strangely?). I couldn’t find much of a window for an affair though. We spent SO. MUCH. time together! Admittedly, yes, I acknowledged he had been a little stressed in the previous weeks, but he was in the running for a significant promotion at work – soon to be earning over $120,000/year at work – and a little bit of stress is only natural in the circumstances… right?

So, to me, it just didn’t make sense.

He has a high-income lawyer job. Two houses. Excellent IVF chances. Holidays. Church. Great couple friends also having babies. Life’s predictable and sensible and safe and, well, once that baby comes along, it’ll be 110% perfect!

(Yes, I’m hoping you are starting to see cracks, even though grieving Ess was completely oblivious!).

Again, how did this happen?!

This ship is unsinkable!! Everyone said so!! So, how is this even possible?

I always thought that when a relationship was in trouble, both people would realise. Surely both people could sense if there was an issue. Both would know that something was not right. But I never saw this coming. I AM HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE WITH HIM , I thought.

The ice berg was completely unforeseen.

Mum and Aly were at my house. There was nothing anyone could say to change the situation. They couldn’t give me any answers. They just listened to me ramble on and on whilst going around in circles trying to find answers. And they sat in comforting silence with me when I couldn’t speak.

At 2pm, Mr Ex made contact.

He texted me.

He said that he wasn’t coming home any time soon.

But I remembered that he was going sailing that weekend. He must be texting me just before he sets sail, I thought. OK, that’s not too bad. He just needs some thinking time. Sailing will clear away the cobwebs. The fresh sea air will do him a world of good.

“You’re better than this,” I texted, trying to encourage him. “Come back to me. Come back to reality. Come back to God. We will get through this and be stronger for it. I love you no matter what.”

No reply though.

“Are you sure he’s actually gone sailing?” Mum asked me.

Of course I am sure! This is a man with integrity and honesty.  I know my husband.  I mean, he obviously couldn’t live a lie long-term so that’s why he fessed up and told me the truth. He couldn’t live with the guilt so he came clean. That’s a good sign, right?

We had been a couple since I was 17 and he was 19. I had spent seven years defending him, backing him up, and standing by him. That instinct and reflex to defend your spouse is not easy to override.

But my ever-thinking mum rang the sailing club.

There were no boat races that weekend.

My body went into a cold sweat as the realisation sank in. He is not sailing. When he told me weeks ago about the race, it was all a lie. And he is still lying. He is not crossing the gulf. He has been plotting, scheming, LYING for weeks, maybe months!!!!!!

Was it all a big lie to spend the weekend with her?

Things had suddenly changed.

This is not a spur of the moment thing.

This was calculated.

And yes, just like the Titanic, that was that gut-wrenching, earth-shattering, heart-stopping moment where I realise that there aren’t enough lifeboats on-board.

Everyone knew that this incredible ocean liner – aka our marriage – was a beacon of perfection. Seemingly faultless, impeccable and magnificent. So, surely, it doesn’t require lifeboats for everyone on board. Because IT IS UNSINKABLE!! But, here we are. Icy water is pouring in. Rapidly.

Suddenly, the world’s most perfect ship has obvious fatal flaws. And there’s nothing anyone can do.

I had moments of disbelief:  Who needs lifeboats if a ship is unsinkable?! There is absolutely, irrevocably and undoubtedly NO chance of this going under!

And, I had moments of reality: We’re taking on water and this ship will be on the bottom of the ocean in a matter of hours, unless there is some kind of miracle.

Chapter 2: Is It Me or Her?!

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What the fuck do I do? A million, zillion thoughts flooding my head.

AND I’ve just uttered my very, very first expletive!? Fuck, I don’t ever swear! Oh, shit! What’s happening to me?! Oh, shit! and again!! CRAP!

My husband has just come home, dropped the bombshell that he is having an affair, and then walked out the door.

Should I call someone? Should I make dinner and carry on as normal?

I started washing dishes in my kitchen sink. Loyal Rommy sat at my feet. He understood.

I wiped each mug meticulously and carefully placed it in its correct spot. Then I started dashing around the living room, correcting anything that was out of its place – magazines, coasters, dog toys, slippers – and putting it where it belonged. Some kind of bizarre control thing? Perhaps.

I went through a mental list of my friends. Who could I call in an emergency?

Maybe there’s no sense making this public knowledge, I told myself. I expected Mr Ex to walk back through the door at any minute. And I didn’t want to cause him embarrassment by telling others about his ‘little mistake’.

Where has he gone? Who is she? Is he coming back? Am I going crazy? Did they have sex? Should I call my parents? Do I phone a friend? Do I go to bed? Should I call him? Yes, I should call him. No, I better not call him! He’ll be back; don’t stress. Should I just make a cup of tea? Yes, I am calm. I am in control. I am fine. I am good. I am OK. NO, I’M BLOODY NOT OK!!!!! I know; I will call Aly.

Aly answered my ‘000 call’. I went into a hysterical monologue.

I can’t even remember what I said to Aly, but it was a constant stream of terror.

Aly was the first person I met at university. At our first lecture, we sat next to each other in a lecture theatre filled with around 300 other people. Aly and I instantly bonded over our mutual love of the colour pink, cupcakes and 7th Heaven. We had also both joined the Christian club at university. Match made in heaven, you might say! It wasn’t long before we were double-dating with our boyfriends. A couple of years passed by, Aly got engaged a short time before me, and suddenly, we were planning our weddings together. I was a bridesmaid in Aly’s wedding and she was a bridesmaid in mine. We were always on par with each other; we were always at the same stage of life. Last time we talked, it was probably about having babies, fertility cycles and decorating nurseries. Aly and her husband had just had a baby and Mr Ex and I had been trying.

After a short while of chaos on the phone, Aly calmed me down. She reassured me and told me that it would be OK. We agreed that Mr Ex would come to his senses.

This will all blow over. Mr Ex and I have a solid, water-tight relationship based on mutual love and respect. It’s all good. We were SURE of that.

Soon after saying goodbye to Aly, my phone rang.

The words “Mr Ex, my husband calling…” appeared on the mini phone screen of my Nokia 7230 with the usual photo of Mr Ex and Rommy which was assigned to his caller ID. I frantically scrambled to slide the bar across to answer it.

“Hello?!” Damn, too much desperation in my voice.

“Oh good,” he replied, emotionless. “Essie, I’m only calling to check if you’re still alive.”

What’s that supposed to mean?! There was a pause.

“Where are you?!” I hastily asked Mr Ex. And within milliseconds, thousands of images flashed through my mind. He’s coming home now! Is he calling to apologise for walking out? Surely he wants to come home. SURELY.

Oh, I was SO sure it was all about to blow over. I whole-heartedly believed he was calling to say he was on his way home. And to remorsefully apologise. But far from it.

He wouldn’t answer my questions. And he made it clear that he was not coming home, nor apologetic.

I asked another pressing question, “Mr Ex, is it me or her?”

Another pause.

“I don’t know, Essie; I don’t know,” he replied, slowly. “But I’m not coming home…”

The dreaded reply.

Cue the Titanic music.

After a very long pause (or, actually, maybe it was immediate; I had little concept of time that evening), Mr Ex told me that he was just about to hang up. In desperation, I started to frantically talk. If I keep talking, he can’t hang up! I’m not entirely sure of what I was saying, although I do remember pleading for him to come home and telling him that we could get through anything.

But just as I could feel that he was about to put down the phone, I managed to slip in a final line:  “I’m going to pray for you”.

And that was actually a very interesting comment on my part.

No, I wasn’t being kind. Deep down, it was me having a dig at him. It was a clutching-at-straws reminder of our religiosity, hoping that it might jolt him back into reality. A reminder that we are CHRISTIANS, we go to CHURCH, and we DON’T do this sort of thing!!! A reminder of the Christians in our lives who would see this as abominable behaviour, especially Mr Ex’s fundamentalist Christian father. And a guilt-trip that GOD WOULD NOT APPROVE**

**I clearly still had a lot to learn about Jesus and what it actually means to be a Christian.

Agh! That’s SO hard to think back to. But it’s oh-so true. I did it, so I know it’s true. Christians use “God” as a way to convince or guilt others into doing or saying or believing what they believe. As if convincing or guilting someone is ever sustainable long-term.

A little background… Mr Ex and I had attended a church over the course of our marriage. We even met in church. A very conservative church. Minimalist worship style. Only men are allowed up the front. Women don’t pray aloud in prayer meetings and certainly don’t go anywhere near the front of the church. Just a piano. No guitars and definitely no drums. No altar or anything remotely Catholic-ish. Plain, plain, plain. Strictly King James Version of the Bible. The men always wore ties and the women skirts. Men talked about fishing and building things. Women talked about cooking. Many times, I’d walk away joking to Mr Ex, “Well, I must be a man because I’d much prefer to talk about fishing, rather than cooking!”  Mr Ex, on the other hand, loved cooking. Funny how churches often say things like, “Can the women please bring a plate of food to share?” 😉 That always pissed me off a bit.

Anyway, in a nutshell, we were good at the Christian thing. We’d go to church, stand up for the singing, sit down for the notices, stand up for the Bible reading, sit down for the sermon, stand up for more singing, sit down for the prayers. Admittedly, in recent years, we would then leave immediately to avoid making conversation or getting stuck at church for too long, but at least we are AT church! Right??…

Anyway, Mr Ex scoffed and muttered “yeah…” in reply to my prayer comment.

Then he hung up.

No surprises there. I did try to call him back but he had turned his phone off. My parents came over and Mum stayed with me overnight. I didn’t get any sleep that night.

Chapter 1: Disaster Friday

20somethinganddivorced6 Comments

Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we’ll ever do.

So here goes…

Nearly two years ago, my husband came home from work and told me that he was having an affair. We had been married for nearly four years. Four very happy years filled with life’s abundant blessings.

I was 24 and he was 26.

It was the Friday night of the January 2013 long weekend as well as the last day of Summer school holidays. I was on cloud 9 because, as a co-ordinator at a popular Vacation Care service for children, the end of school holidays meant the end of our busiest season. Woohoo! So I came home that evening feeling totally exhausted after six weeks of school holidays filled with taking sixty chaotic children, aged between four and twelve, to the zoo, co-ordinating games of Stuck in the Mud, making fruit skewers and fashioning crocodiles out of cereal boxes and egg cartons (ahh, the memories of multiple burns on my fingers from the hot glue gun!).

My husband – for privacy’s sake, let’s call him Mr Ex – had texted me earlier in the day saying, “I love you, Ess. I’ll pick up ciders on my way home to celebrate you surviving [Vacation Care]!”

After getting home and changing into an oversized t-shirt and comfy leggings, I was sitting on the floor in the lounge room watching TV. Nothing in particular; just blankly watching TV to fill in the time before my beloved husband returned home from work.

Rommy, our fur baby, heard his papa’s car pulling up and started barking excitedly.

Next came the sound of his keys in the door.

“I survived!!” I cried out with a smile from ear to ear, thinking of the busyness at work over the past six weeks.

No reply came.

That’s odd.

Mr Ex is a lawyer. He walked into the room, putting his briefcase onto a kitchen chair and my celebratory ciders on the bench, and came over to stand in between me – still sitting on the floor – and the TV.

“Essie, I have something to tell you and it is going to hurt you,” he began.

I braced myself and hit the mute button on the TV remote control.

“I have been seeing someone else.”

My instant reaction was to laugh. I didn’t. But his statement was 100% far-fetched, impossible, out of the question, ridiculous, laughable, etc. etc. I mean, that was my best friend standing in front of me. My soul mate. My other half. The only other person in this world who really ‘got’ me. A person who could never lie or cheat or do the wrong thing by me. A person with a heart of gold and compassion to match. So his statement was ludicrous in every possible and impossible way.

It must be a joke. That’s the only explanation.

Within milliseconds, I realised this was not a joke.

I started crying and shrivelled into a little ball, expecting him to come down to my level, hug me, and tell me how much he regretted it and that I was the only girl for him.

He didn’t.

He continued standing over me with a horrifying look of vacuity.

Who is this person?!

I got up and wiped away the tears, realising that sobbing on the floor was futile.

“Who is she?”, “How long has this been going on for?” …all the questions that you hear jilted wives asking on soapies. Mr Ex didn’t say much though. Instead, he walked back to the kitchen bench, buried his head in his hands, and said that he wanted some space away from me.

WHAT?! He hasn’t “needed space” away from me in the past seven years!!

Occasionally, he was a crew member on a sailing boat that competed in races. The races were always during the daytime, but he’d told me for the past couple of weeks that he was doing his first overnight race that long weekend, leaving Saturday morning and returning Sunday afternoon. I had made a note of that in my diary with a sad face. I’d absolutely hated the thought of being home alone overnight. In fact, I’d absolutely hated the thought of being without him for any period of time.

“I’m going to stay with a friend tonight and then I’m still going sailing tomorrow,” he quietly told me, still with his head in his hands. I tried to pull his hands away from his face. I wanted to talk. I wanted answers. I wanted to know details. But he muttered, “We might both get lucky and I’ll fall overboard and drown.”

“Don’t say that!” I snapped.

In exasperation, I stamped my foot. I begged him to stay. I begged him to talk.

But it didn’t work.

He slowly removed his face from his hands and looked deeply at me.

“Can I call someone for you to talk to?” he asked. He seemed strangely calm.

“I only want to talk to you!” I slapped his forearm in desperation. A pitiful little girl slap. He looked at me with a face of sympathy and sorrow, then he grabbed some sailing things and walked out the front door.

With Rommy sticking close-by to me, I walked to the glass sliding door and looked out into the backyard. All I could see in the darkness was my reflection.

How to describe this moment?

Utter devastation. Disorientation. Confusion. Trauma.

I started uncontrollably bellowing.

How in all the WORLD did this HAPPEN to us?! He’s my EVERYTHING!! I’m NOTHING without him! We’ve been INSEPARABLE for the past SEVEN YEARS!! We met in CHURCH! We are CHRISTIANS!! We have friends who are Christians!! If there REALLY is a loving God out there, he would NOT let this happen!! What went WRONG???

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Scroll below to find a link to “Next: Chapter 2 – Is it me or her?!” or go back to the “Chapters in order” tab above.